


A wanting heart

by Apuzzlingprince



Series: Witcher Fanfics [19]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-28
Updated: 2018-12-28
Packaged: 2019-09-14 02:58:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16904823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Apuzzlingprince/pseuds/Apuzzlingprince
Summary: The source of Geralt’s current troubles came in the form of Yennefer of Vengerberg. The two of them'd had a spat, as they were wont to do, and now Geralt was lying curled in bed with his arms folded over his face, which no doubt bore a pitiful grimace. He would occasionally mutter something under his breath, his voice too quiet to be intelligible. If Jaskier had to guess, he was probably muttering something scathing about sorceresses and their propensity for foul moods.Geralt and Yennefer have a fight. Jaskier is there to offer comfort - of a sort.





	A wanting heart

**Author's Note:**

> Something more book based than my usual fics! There needs to be more Geralt x Jaskier/Dandelion (especially book based), so I'll probably write some more in the future.

Geralt wasn’t having a good day. This wasn’t at all surprising to Jaskier, as good days for Geralt were few and far between. This day was unique, however, in that Geralt was choosing to openly sulk instead of the standard feigned indifference. Jaskier had been friends with Geralt going a decade now and he still hadn’t figured out how to prevent this periodic brooding.

The source of Geralt’s current troubles came in the form of Yennefer of Vengerberg. The two of them'd had a spat, as they were wont to do, and now Geralt was lying curled in bed with his arms folded over his face, which no doubt bore a pitiful grimace. He would occasionally mutter something under his breath, his voice too quiet to be intelligible. If Jaskier had to guess, he was probably muttering something scathing about sorceresses and their propensity for foul moods.

Jaskier set his lute on the bedside table and lowered himself to the bundle of furs Geralt was lying on. Their accommodation wasn’t ideal (the room only had one bed, which Geralt took up most of), but this was all their combined funds had been able to cover. If not for the rainy weather, they would have braved the outdoors, but one didn’t want to be sleeping outside during the rainy season in Wyzim. It was when the swamp monsters liked to venture closer to civilisation.

“You really ought not to let one woman put you in such a state, Geralt.” He clucked his tongue in disapproval, making himself comfortable beside Geralt. “Such deep investment is dangerous for one’s well-being. I mean, just look at you! You’ve been lying there sulking all evening.” He leaned closer, trying to peer at Geralt’s face past his arms. “This is why I favour polygamy. If one relationship falls through, I have another to comfort me.”

“Jaskier,” said Geralt, his voice muffled. “The only reason you favour polygamy is because you’re an insatiable pervert.”

“That too,” said Jaskier good-naturedly. He patted Geralt’s shoulder. “Still, I have a point, don’t I? You need to stop dragging yourself back to Yennefer when it’s clear being with her only causes you anguish. Take some time to think about what you both want from a relationship and whether or not those are things you can get from each other.”

Geralt scoffed. “Longest relationship you’ve ever had was a few weeks. You aren’t in any position to be giving me advice.”

“On the contrary, my friend! The many relationships I’ve had enables me to decipher the intricacies of being in a relationship with most women. Not all of them, I will concede, but Yennefer rather reminds me of a cold-hearted little minx I met-“

“Shut it, would you?” Geralt lowered his arms to his sides, scowling over his shoulder at Jaskier. “I’m in no mood for your advice.”

“So I see,” said Jaskier, without the slightest hint that he cared at all. He threw his legs up onto the bed and toed off his boots. “Since you insist on being a brooding boor, I suppose I’ll have to give you a little pick-me-up before we proceed.”

Geralt scowled. “What part of ‘shut it’ do you fail to understand? Need I shove a handkerchief in your mouth for you to be quiet?”

“Why ever would any woman take issue with such a _gentleman_.”

“Jaskier…”

“I know that is an empty threat, Geralt, so I shall forgive your rudeness. You’re prone to such things when in a sour mood.” He lay himself down beside Geralt, his chest tentatively to Geralt’s back. Geralt didn’t push him off, nor move away, so he took that as permission to slowly draw his palms down Geralt’s sides. “You smell nice. Did you take a bath today?”

“Yes,” said Geralt, his voice a mite strained. 

He had a lite build for a warrior, courtesy of inconsistent meals and consistent exercise, but it wasn’t so much so that he was unattractive. Quite the opposite, as Jaskier found a lean build an attractive feature on men. Those with wide bodies and bulging muscles never turned his head.

“She used the scented oils,” he observed, burying his nose into Geralt’s hair and breathing in deep. On a bad day, he would never have risked doing such a thing. But Geralt seemed to have done a nice, deep clean before his spat with Yennefer. “Lilac and gooseberries. Lovely.”

“Didn’t have much choice," muttered Geralt. He audibly swallowed when Jaskier’s palms reached his midsection. "She found my presence ‘offensive’ after my last contract.”

“I’m inclined to agree. You may have become accustomed to the smell of ghoul entrails, but I still gag when you return from a job smelling like that.”

"Well then, I apologise for earning us money through the only means I have. I'll be sure to prioritise your sensitive nose in the future."

"Oh, stop pouting," said Jaskier. "You know I didn't mean it like that. You're just looking for an excuse to be mad at me."

He wasn’t surprised when Geralt grabbed his wrist and yanked his hand to his crotch. The man never had been terribly patient where pleasure was concerned. “I'll be mad with you regardless if you don't get on with it,” he said. “I'm not in the mood to hear you talk."

“I’ll talk if I please, Geralt,” said Jaskier, though he carefully undid the ties on Geralt’s trousers anyway, reaching beyond his waistband. There was some eagerness in the way Jaskier wrapped his fingers around the mid-section of Geralt’s (deliciously girthy and long) cock, but Jaskier tried to maintain an air of calm, for dignities sake. He might’ve been a bit of a whore, but he was not going to openly drool over his best friends’ cock – even if it _was_ drool worthy.

Geralt let out a little choked sound when Jaskier began to stroke, and that delighted Jaskier. There was something very fulfilling about making a warrior gasp so wantonly.

"A little sensitive today, are we?" Jaskier chuckled. "You always seem to be after those witcher potions of yours have run their course." After the impotence had passed, that was. "Have you noticed?"

"I'm certainly noticing now," Geralt said, his voice breathy.

Jaskier placed idle kisses on Geralt's scalp while he worked at Geralt's cock. He was something of an affectionate lover, and that was especially true when he liked his partner as much as he did Geralt. He continued to apply these kisses as he flicked his thumb over Geralt's frenulum, prompting Geralt to shiver against his chest. It was the most sensitive area on Geralt's cock and one Jaskier made sure to take liberal advantage of whenever he had the opportunity.

“This is much better than sulking, isn’t it?” he asked.

Geralt didn’t say anything. The only sounds coming out of his mouth now were short, stuttering breaths.

“Breathe properly, Geralt,” said Jaskier. He lessened his grip on Geralt, just briefly, to make sure Geralt would be able to find his voice to respond. “Deep breaths. You always worry me when you breathe like that.”

It seemed to take Geralt a moment to register the instructions. “Can’t help it,” he murmured. “’S a habit to hold my breath, steady my heart beat. Witcher training.”

“Well, try not to," said Jaskier. "You’ll enjoy it more if you breathe properly, I’m sure.”

While Geralt seemed to _want_ to breathe properly, and _tried_ to, his breaths subsided into pants the moment Jaskier resumed stroking at his cock. He attempted to relax Geralt by licking his way up the nape of Geralt's neck, roving the flat of his tongue over the fine hairs there. It didn't work, but it did elicit a pleased little sigh from Geralt, and that response emboldened Jaskier, prompting him to speak again. “I can always help you breathe properly, if you like?”

“If there's a means with which you can do that, go ahead,” Geralt murmured.

The moment he had permission, Jaskier slid an arm beneath Geralt's neck and folded his forearm over Geralt's clavicle, his fingers creeping toward Geralt's mouth. Geralt accepted the long, nimble fingers that passed his lips and slid beneath his incisors without complaint. Jaskier wasn’t usually this bold; a sexual encounter between them typically involved a mouth and brief penetration, often under the haze of alcohol, but Geralt seemed particularly sensitive and submissive today, and Jaskier couldn’t pass up the opportunity to take advantage.

“Deep breaths,” Jaskier murmured, forcing Geralt’s lips to part, nice and wide. “Much easier to breathe when you can’t grit your teeth, huh?”

Geralt, of course, did not reply. Saliva was gathering on Jaskier’s skin, slipping in messy rivulets between each finger and down his palm. Having had many lovers, many of the messy variety, this didn't bother Jaskier in the least. Dealing with body fluids was inevitable during sex. 

To have Geralt so willingly debasing himself was incredibly arousing. The famed white wolf, Butcher of Blaviken, slayer of Wyzim’s striga, was being undone by the talented hands of a simple musician. People claimed bards to be a bunch of milksops – preposterous! Anyone who claimed such a thing clearly didn't understand the power and persuasion of one learned in music.

When Geralt moaned around his invading fingers, Jaskier found himself getting hard, the bulge in his trousers resting on the clef of Geralt’s very lovely ass. He’d picked out thin trousers today, the kind traditionally warn by bards, and he was sure Geralt was able to make out every vein on his cock by feel alone.

“I have made love to a few men in my time,” he murmured against Geralt's neck. “Mostly while in Oxenfurt; one’s time in study is also a time to accumulate experience in other, less scholarly areas of life, after all, and I did a lot of experimenting.” He gave a breathy chuckle. “I’m told I was quite talented.”

Geralt grunted around his middle and pointer finger, his teeth lightly grazing the skin.

“I know it’s not something we often do, especially while sober, but wouldn’t you like to try?”

Jaskier stroked him a little harder, a little faster, and revelled  in the shudders that wracked Geralt’s body. He must have been getting close.

“With that Witcher stamina of yours, I bet I could bring you to orgasm, oh… how does three times sound?”

One, most definitely, as it wasn’t long after this statement that Geralt let out a short, reedy gasp and came into the bed furs. Jaskier wasn’t able to catch it all, but that was alright; he doubted this was the first time the furs had been sullied in such a manner.

Removing his hand from Geralt’s mouth, he ran his dripping fingers first down Geralt’s back, then between his ass cheeks. Geralt moved into the touch, which was a promising sign.

“May I?” he asked, his voice low and breathy.

“Would have removed you from the bed by now if I wasn’t interested,” Geralt mumbled in reply.

Jaskier smiled against the side of his neck and ran his fingertips over Geralt’s entrance, not breaching yet, but stimulating the fine cluster of nerves there. He wouldn’t try anything until Geralt was wholly relaxed.

“We’re going to need some oil,” he said, parting Geralt’s legs with a knee, enabling easier access to his most vulnerable bits. “Do you have any on hand that wouldn't cause you, or me, any harm?”

“Plenty,” said Geralt.

Jaskier stroked some more saliva into Geralt’s entrance, stretching the soft, pink skin there, then gestured for Geralt to retrieve the oil from the floor. It was a bit of a stretch, but Geralt managed to retrieve the oil without slipping out of reach of Jaskier’s stroking fingers. He handed the flask to Jaskier over his shoulder.

“If it starts to get uncomfortable, tell me,” instructed Jaskier.

Geralt snorted. “I’m mauled every other week. I’ll be fine.”

Jaskier didn’t much like how resigned to pain his friend was. He resolved to make this a very pleasant, memorable night.

“Yes,” said Jaskier, uncorking the oil with his teeth and pouring a generous amount onto his fingers, which were still stroking away. “But that is _meant_ to be uncomfortable; this isn’t.”

Geralt shrugged and fell silent. He never did contribute much when Jaksier tried to impress a sense of self-respect upon him. As Geralt clearly didn't want to continue the conversation, Jaskier proceeded with sliding a finger in, just to the half way point. He waited until Geralt had gone completely slack around it before reaching deeper, sliding right up to a knuckle. He was hot and tight, and promised to be even hotter and tighter once Jaskier got a cock in him. 

Once his finger was nestled deep inside, he waited until Geralt had relaxed around the intrusion before adding another. He made sure to be slow, considerate of Geralt’s comfort, and was rewarded by Geralt turning soft and pliable beneath him. It was much nicer to be able to do this while sober, to feel Geralt without the obstruction of disorientation and be as attentive toward Geralt as he was all his other lovers. 

“How does it feel?” he asked, so aroused now that his breeches were starting to hurt.

Geralt turned his face into the furs. He was prone to doing such things when embarrassed. “Fine. Keep going.”

Jaskier smiled and twisted the fingers within him a few times, adding an additional dollop of oil. You could never have enough oil during anal.

“Pull your knees up,” he said, and Geralt obliged, drawing them toward his chest. “Just half way – there. Perfect.”

With better access to Geralt’s ass, he was able to slide in that little bit deeper, searching with his long fingers until he reached what he was looking for with a cry - from Geralt, that was. It was usually far more difficult to find the prostate than this, and nigh impossible while intoxicated (which had made their previous attempts at anal rather disappointing), but apparently Geralt's sensitivity extended even to areas that weren't _explicitly_ meant for sex. Either that, or he was always this sensitive when Jaskier wasn't trying to finger him after six cups of the cheapest alcohol available.

“You look lovely like this.” Jaskier nestled in close, pressing a kiss behind Geralt’s ear. He felt a lucky man. “I really wish you wouldn’t hide your face.”

Geralt swallowed thickly. “Y-you gonna talk all through this?”

“Maybe. I’m in a chatty mood.”

Geralt twitched down onto Jaskier’s next stroke. “At least do me the decency of- mmmph…” He trailed off briefly, clawing his fingers into the furs. When next he spoke, his words were so fast as to almost be incomprehensible. Fortunately for Jaskier, who’d dealt with a drunk Geralt on many an occasion, he had become practised at deciphering Geralt’s inhibited speech. “Of _hurrying up_ and _fucking_ me.”

“Oh, not quite yet,” said Jaskier, giving Geralt’s insides a particularly hard stroke. Geralt choked on a breath. “We’re doing this my way, Geralt, and you are going to love it.”

Jaskier could practically hear him purse his lips in frustration.

“Don’t pout,” said Jaskier, dragging the tip of his nose along Geralt’s heated skin. "Your patience will be rewarded, I promise."

His strokes developed a steady rhythm. By the way Geralt was trembling, he expected Geralt would be having his second orgasm of the night any moment now. There would undoubtedly be a refractory period afterwards, but that was alright; Jaskier would take it as an opportunity to prepare himself for the next stage.

Geralt’s breaths took on a gasping quality. He was close. So close. Jaskier cupped a hand over the head of Geralt’s cock to prevent further mess and that contact, slight though it was, was enough to make Geralt cry out and spill into Jaskier’s palm.

Jaskier managed to catch every drop. He wiped it from his fingers with a handkerchief before it could reach the furs. There was only so much mess they could get away with.

While Geralt was panting and shivering, struggling to exert some control over himself, Jaskier withdrew his fingers and rose onto his knees. He gingerly turned Geralt onto his back. The man looked beautiful. Dishevelled, sweaty, flushed, with his eyes half-lidded and his lips parted. His pupils were incredibly dilated, Jaskier noted. He’d never seen them blown so wide.

“You.” Jaskier swallowed thickly. “You look rather nice like this.”

Geralt regarded him queerly.

“By which I mean…” Jaskier couldn’t figure out how to complete this sentence, so he cleared his throat and moved on. “Why don’t we do it in this position instead? It’s much more personable.” He slipped between Geralt’s legs before Geralt could reply, letting the head of his cock rest between Geralt's ass cheeks.

“What’s ‘personability’ matter?” asked Geralt, still in the process of recovering full control over his faculties. “We’re not a besotted couple lying for the first time.”

“Come on, Geralt,” said Jaskier. “I want to be able to look at you.”

Geralt flung an arm over his face and let out a long-suffering sigh. “Fine. But if you start with the poetry…”

“I promise I won’t.” There would be time to wax poetic about Geralt’s hair and thighs later. Perhaps he could fit a line or two into one of his pre-existing ballads.

Geralt reached between them to draw Jaskier closer, bringing the tip of Jaskier’s cock to his loosened hole. That was encouragement enough for Jaskier to fold his hands over Geralt’s hips and sink slowly – very slowly – into Geralt’s heat.

If the stretch was uncomfortable, Geralt gave no indication of it. He let out one long breath and fluttered his eyelashes, then cracked open his eyes enough to watch himself stretch around Jaskier's cock. It was reassuring behaviour, but Jaskier remained still for a moment anyway, running his hands up Geralt’s taut navel and tracing the muscles there with his fingertips. His skin was warm and slick. It felt nice. It tasted nice, too, when he bent down and licked a stripe between Geralt’s pecs. Geralt seemed to enjoy that, so he lightly bit a nipple next, leaving it shiny and red.

It was Geralt who started moving first, sliding himself further down onto Jaskier’s cock, a groan pushing past his teeth. Now that Jaskier was certain Geralt had adjusted to his girth (which he liked to think was quite significant), he started slow, calculated thrusts and watched Geralt carefully to figure out from what angle he would best please the witcher. It didn’t take him long to find out that a slight upward thrust, with Geralt’s legs over his shoulders, was enough to make the man shout.

He was beautiful. Not a word often applied to Geralt, Jaskier was sure, but even with his pallid skin and gaunt features, he was beautiful. Jaskier marvelled at him as he thrust, drinking in his long hair spread out under his head and the slight, barely perceptible splatter of pink on his face and chest and his lovely cock. Jaskier wrapped a hand around that cock, giving it a few fast strokes while Geralt writhed.

He most certainly didn’t have Yennefer on the mind right now, and Jaskier was oddly pleased about that.

“Coming up on your third orgasm, I see,” murmured Jaskier, delighted. He leaned down, lathing his tongue over Geralt’s abused nipple before continuing. “This is the part where I generally tell my partners they’re beautiful and perfect and, well, I’m not sure you’ll believe me if I say it.” He moved a little further up, now nuzzling Geralt’s neck. “But you’re beautiful, Geralt. Beautiful and perfect.”

He felt Geralt’s hand on his back, clawing into his skin, as Geralt reached his third orgasm. The reflexive way he clenched and trembled around Jaskier’s cock was enough to pull Jaskier in to orgasm after him, spilling his seed into Geralt. It gathered at the base of his cock and slid out in a messy rivulet as he withdrew.

There was no more talk for a while. Both men were shivering, panting, still coming down from their orgasms, and even if they’d had the presence of mind to speak, neither of them wanted to.

Jaskier sunk to Geralt’s chest, his head nestled under Geralt’s chin. Geralt’s hard breaths played along his sandy blonde hair.

That had been wonderful. It was a shame that Geralt generally favoured hand jobs and blow jobs when they were intimate. He didn’t think this rapturous experience could be replicated with any woman, nor any other man. Particularly as he didn't care for any other man or woman as much as he did Geralt, and thus lacked passion during lovemaking.

Once he had enough strength to do so, Jaskier retrieved a corner of one of the furs and pulled it over them, right up to their shoulders. It was too cool for them to lie in bed without it.

Geralt was the one to break the silence.

“Thanks, Jaskier,” he said. He closed his eyes, his fingers idly playing with the hair at the nape of Jaskier’s neck. “Think I’ll be able to get some sleep now. And I’ll… talk to her tomorrow, perhaps. We will discuss things. Properly this time, as you suggested.”

Jaskier’s smile faltered. “Always glad to assist, my friend,” he said, but his words rang hollow to his own ears. This had been a favour, a fling, and Geralt would be returning to Yennefer shortly. If ever they did this again, it would not be for a long time, and Jaskier was disappointed. He’d hoped Geralt would part from her a little longer, awful as that was.

But then, Jaskier could always get sex elsewhere, even if it wouldn't be nearly as good. There was no reason to get upset.

He turned his face into Geralt’s chest, kissing the fine hairs there.

“I hope you’ll at least let me have a quick romp come morning.”

Geralt scoffed. “Always one thing on the mind. Banish the thought, Jaskier.”

“Oh, fine," said Jaskier. "As a gentleman, I’m obligated to obey, however reluctant I might be.”

“Good, now allow me to rest. You tire me.”

Jaskier’s smile returned. “I did say I would.”

Jaskier managed to fall asleep before Geralt despite being considerably less tired; he always had been good at falling fast into slumber. It came in handy while travelling, considering how uncomfortable some of the places they spent the night were.

Come morning, Geralt was absent from their bed, so he bathed, dressed, and left to find his friend. He would have breakfast later that morning, perhaps at the pub if they had enough coin to spare for some eggs and bread. If not, there were plenty of houses around that kept chicken coops, and surely they wouldn't miss a few eggs.

After a lengthy search, he found Geralt at the dike, speaking in hushed tones to a frazzled and frowning Yennefer. It was not long, however, before Yennefer sighed, shook her head, and pulled him into a kiss. Geralt's hands slid slowly and hesitantly into her wild black curls.

The time they spent apart after a fight was steadily getting shorter. Jaskier was certain this was the shortest break yet. It'd barely been twenty four hours.

As he watched them, the nature of his earlier disappointment became clear to him. Which was to say, it wasn’t disappointment at all: it was _jealousy_. Jealousy, because Geralt belonged to Yennefer. Jealously, because no amount of intimacy between he and Geralt would ever change that. Geralt was not his and Geralt would never be his. How ironic it was that the only person Jaskier cared to have as a consistent presence in his life was the one person he couldn’t have.

He’d always known sex could be a gateway to such feelings and he was starting to regret sleeping with Geralt at all, not least because it was such a strange ache, so foreign to him. It was usually he who elicited this feeling in other people, not the other way around. 

Jaskier didn’t much feel like eating as he turned around and headed for the pub. A stiff drink was what he needed. He would get drink, strum a song on his lute, and forget the events of last night.

Yes, that was what he would do. There was no better solution for a wanting heart.  


End file.
